The First Snowfall
by Miss de Winter
Summary: A rather depressing D/N story. Something we're all thought about, that I decided to write. NOTE: Everyone please SKIP chapter one. You'll find the same text in chapter 2, in readable format (chapter 2's been uploaded as well)
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: All characters, with the exception of Kyren, belong to Tamora Pierce and Random House Publishing ****

Disclaimer: All characters, with the exception of _Kyren_, belong to Tamora Pierce and Random House Publishing. The poem in the beginning belongs to Billi Rouge. No profit is being made of any of this. 

****

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

By Miss de Winter

__

First love, is like the first snowfall, in December.

Awaited so long, it twirls and laughs, plays and cherishes

It lightens, frees, and we come running out

In brand new gloves, with eager faces,

And we embrace the snow.

But first love,

First love is like the first snowfall, in December

And like first snow,

It melts.

And leaves us nothings but cold, black earth.

It was over.
    
    
    He knew it just by looking at her—by the look of pure terror on her face. The look that mingled with guilt, uncertainty, the desire to run as far and as fast and as long as she could, away from him. But she wasn't going to run, she was going to confront him. And that probably made it even worse, because it meant that somewhere in her heart, she still loved him. But not the way he wanted her to. Not the way he _needed_ her to. That was why it hurt so much.
    "I need to talk to you." She said in a quivering voice that was barely more than a whisper. He walked over to a chair and sat down, gesturing faintly for her to do the same. His movements felt slow and slugged, and he knew if he spoke his worlds would be slurred, too. But that was all on the outside. On the inside, his thoughts were racing, his blood pounding, and his heart was banging against his ribs.
    It was late, very much so. The experiment he had been working on was leading no where, so he was sitting up in the main room waiting for her to return. He was beginning to get worried. And she had come, a little after the midnight bell had rung, standing in the middle of the room like a stranger.
    "Numair…"
    She was wringing her hands, sitting with her back straight as a board, staring into the carpet. He jammed his eyes into her and stared. He knew she could feel his gaze, and knew that she wanted to shrink away from it, but that was beyond his control. Her hair was spilling around her face, and veiling it so that it could only be seen when looking at her directly. At that moment, she looked more beautiful to him than ever before. And he knew then, too, that she would never look as beautiful to him as she did then. People say that you appreciate a something truly only _after _you lose it. No, it was not so. You appreciate something the most when you _are _losing it.
    "Numair, I…"
    Her voice faltered again. This was, if it was possible, harder for her than it was him. Numair watched her, thinking that. But it helped neither of them much. He wondered why he didn't stop this right now. He could reach out, put a hand over hers, stilling it, smile sadly and tell her it was alright, that he understood. And she would break out into tears, and sob, say something incomprehensible, and… and she would leave, and he'd be left alone. He's be left alone, but this—this torture, this waiting for her to actually say the words, would be over.
    But that would be heroic, and despite everything, he was no hero. He remained silent.
    His Daine looked up, right into his eyes, and immediately looked back to the floor, cringing. She gave a dry sod, her breath ragged.
    "Numair, I can't do this anymore!"
    Gods, that hurt.
    He clenched his fingers into a fist, digging his nails into flesh, still unable to rip his eyes away from her beautiful—_beautiful_—face. She was talking now, rapidly. Explaining, assuring. A couple of times she would lift a hand to brush her hair behind her ears, but the unruly curls would come tumbling back down immediately. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground. He didn't seem to be able to hear her words, just her voice. His head was feeling oddly light, and he was trying to ignore the pounding in his chest.
    Gods, he knew it was a mistake. He knew it from the very beginning, from the moment he realized that she was more to him then what he had thought her to be. It was torture back then, to watch her. As she made her way between her uncountable admirers, oblivious to them, or perhaps a bit annoyed, as she had been with the clerk. As she sometimes spoke to him of those kind of things. He had always prided his self-control, and he had blessed it then. But all self-control had snapped when he had thought he lost her. Yet even back then—back in the Divine Realms, when he had kissed her for the first time—even then he knew it was a mistake, one of the greatest mistakes he could made. No matter if it was followed by three of the best years of his life. It had been a mistake. And he was now paying dearly for it.
    His Daine had woken up.
    She was silent now, finished with her fiery speech, exhausted. Perhaps feeling worse than before—more guilty, more strained, feeling more like a stranger in this place that was her home too. But maybe better—relieved, lighter, less frightened. She was looking at the floor, waiting for him to speak, wanting him to say something that would make the whole thing better.
    He said something that could only make it worse:
    "Who is it?" he asked.
    Daine, startled, looked up, her eyes wide.
    "What?" she whispered.
    "Can you tell me who he is? His name?"
    "Oh." She breathed.
    Her eyes dropped back to the ground, and she gently rocked back and forth, hugging her elbows and biting her lip.
    "You—you know him."
    Numair stared into space silently for a moment, thinking. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, the bright, grinning face of his young apprentice appeared before his eyes. His light gray eyes, tight black curls, and freckled cheeks. And he had a flash of memory—Daine coming into his workroom, giving the curly apprentice a quick glance, before walking over and wrapping her arms around Numair's neck and giving him a light kiss.
    "Kyren?" He asked softly drawing focus on her face. Daine gave out a shuddering breath. A few tears that had been crawling down her cheeks dropped onto her knees, causing little dark spots to spread. He felt as thought his insides were being torn at by some wild beast with claws.
    He nodded absently, more times that was necessary.
    "He's a good man." He said softly.
    Suddenly, it became to much for Numair. He had to get away from her. He didn't know what would happen if he didn't, but he was sure he wouldn't survive to find interest in the consequences. He quickly rose.
    Reaching out on arm, he abruptly stopped it and dropped it to his side. He wanted to brush to cheek, but no. That would be an intimate gesture, a gesture of affection. He wasn't allowed now to show her that king of intimate affection anymore. Giving out a sharp breath, her turned and tightly shut his eyes.
    "Good bye, Daine." He managed to say calmly and quietly before striding quickly to the door of his workroom and stepping inside.
    Daine remained for a couple minuets sitting as she was, being tormented by the feelings of pure guilt that bubbled in her blood. She knew the she couldn't know how she had just hurt him. But it was time. She could no longer hide it from him. And Kyren had wanted her to tell him, too. Kyren loved Numair. He was like him in so many ways. And he told her it was unbearable for him to face his teacher, and then go and kiss they teacher's lover. So it was over.
    Slowly, sluggishly, she rose and, shuffling her feet, went into the bedroom. The shades were pulled tightly closed and it was very dark. She lit a candle and quietly made her way to the dresser. Pulling out the top drawer, she dumped the contents on the large, four poster bed and began folding them absently, shoving them into her bag. She would come back later—in a week, maybe—to get the rest of her things. She, just then, needed to gather her vital belonging and get out.
    But something made her stop.
    A little black box, sitting on the dresser. It had been put here absently, when the owner was examining it, and was interrupted, and had no time to return it to it's rightful place. Frowning slightly, curiosity breaking the surface of her gloomy thoughts, Daine set down a shirt she was holding and reached for the box. The was made of stone, and was cool in her hands. With a soft click she opened it.
    Nearly dropped it.
    Tears sprung to her eyes, clogged her throat, and burned her lungs. She gasped for breath, breath wouldn't come. Her knees suddenly felt weak, her legs could not support her. She staggered, and sank to the floor, leaning against the dresses so that a handle was hurting her back, and wailed, crying softly.
    What was in the little black box that caused out Daine such great distress? The reader has probably already guessed. Yes, a little ring, or pure white gold, with a blind stone, the value of which could not be overcome, nestled at the top. And on the inside, in perfect, slightly slanted script, engraved were the words:
    _My Magelet
    _ …
    **Author's Note:** I've had this idea for awhile. It had been born and blossomed during the more important minuets of Latin class, which is probably why my grade is currently a C. I'm planing to make it a many-part fic (don't despair), the ending of which wanders lonely about my brain and won't settle, although it is there. I'd like to say that I LOVE D/N parings, and there will be fics about them by yours truly (in later years) that aren't so depressing. Parts of this were inspired, although in no direct way influencing the plot, by two songs (Dido's Hunter, and Fields of Gold by Sting, both beautiful songs, so if you haven't heard, go borrow a CD from a buddy, I'm sure s/he has one of them) and by Billi Rouge's poem _First Love_. And one last thing I'd like to add. Due to intense amounts of schoolwork, expect the next part next weekend, at the earliest. Of course I might spin out and surprise everyone, but I'm making no promises.


	2. none

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Author's Note: First of all, I'd like to apologize to everyone for the terrible format in the previous chapter. You can read the first part normally here, or if you don't want to do that, just scroll down to the actual chapter two. I haven't figured out yet why my computer it did that, but I can't take the first part down. For those of you just joining us, this story has been inspired by Dido's Hunter, Fields of Gold by Sting, and the First Snowfall by Billi Rouge. Just so you know, the first two don't have much to do with the plot. Read the poem, and you'll understand why it goes so perfectly with the story. That, I think, is about it. Enjoy!

****

Disclaimer: All characters, with the exception of _Kyren_, belong to Tamora Pierce and Random House Publishing. The poem in the beginning belongs to Billi Rouge. No profit is being made of any of this. 

****

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

By Miss de Winter

__

First love, is like the first snowfall, in December.

Awaited so long, it twirls and laughs, plays and cherishes

It lightens, frees, and we come running out

In brand new gloves, with eager faces,

And we embrace the snow.

But first love,

First love is like the first snowfall, in December

And like first snow,

It melts.

And leaves us nothings but cold, black earth.

It was over.
    
    
    He knew it just by looking at her—by the look of pure terror on her face. The
    look that mingled with guilt, uncertainty, the desire to run as far and as
    fast and as long as she could, away from him. But she wasn't going to run,
    she was going to confront him. And that probably made it even worse, because
    it meant that somewhere in her heart, she still loved him. But not the way he
    wanted her to. Not the way he _needed_ her to. That was why it hurt so much.
    "I need to talk to you." She said in a quivering voice that was barely more
    than a whisper.
    He walked over to a chair and sat down, gesturing faintly for her to do the
    same. His movements felt slow and slugged, and he knew if he spoke his worlds
    would be slurred, too. But that was all on the outside. On the inside, his
    thoughts were racing, his blood pounding, and his heart was banging against
    his ribs.
    It was late, very much so. The experiment he had been working on was leading
    no where, so he was sitting up in the main room waiting for her to return. He
    was beginning to get worried. And she had come, a little after the midnight
    bell had rung, standing in the middle of the room like a stranger.
    "Numair…"
    She was wringing her hands, sitting with her back straight as a board,
    staring into the carpet. He jammed his eyes into her and stared. He knew she
    could feel his gaze, and knew that she wanted to shrink away from it, but
    that was beyond his control. Her hair was spilling around her face, and
    veiling it so that it could only be seen when looking at her directly. At
    that moment, she looked more beautiful to him than ever before. And he knew
    then, too, that she would never look as beautiful to him as she did then.
    People say that you appreciate a something truly only _after _you lose it. No,
    it was not so. You appreciate something the most when you _are _losing it.
    "Numair, I…"
    Her voice faltered again. This was, if it was possible, harder for her than
    it was him. Numair watched her, thinking that. But it helped neither of them
    much. He wondered why he didn't stop this right now. He could reach out, put
    a hand over hers, stilling it, smile sadly and tell her it was alright, that
    he understood. And she would break out into tears, and sob, say something
    incomprehensible, and… and she would leave, and he'd be left alone. He's be
    left alone, but this—this torture, this waiting for her to actually say the
    words, would be over.
    But that would be heroic, and despite everything, he was no hero. He remained
    silent.
    His Daine looked up, right into his eyes, and immediately looked back to the
    floor, cringing. She gave a dry sod, her breath ragged.
    "Numair, I can't do this anymore!"
    Gods, that hurt.
    He clenched his fingers into a fist, digging his nails into flesh, still
    unable to rip his eyes away from her beautiful—_so beautiful_—face. She was
    talking now, rapidly. Explaining, assuring. A couple of times she would lift
    a hand to brush her hair behind her ears, but the unruly curls would come
    tumbling back down immediately. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground. He
    didn't seem to be able to hear her words, just her voice. His head was
    feeling oddly light, and he was trying to ignore the pounding in his chest.
    Gods, he knew it was a mistake. He knew it from the very beginning, from the
    moment he realized that she was more to him then what he had thought her to
    be. It was torture back then, to watch her. As she made her way between her
    uncountable admirers, oblivious to them, or perhaps a bit annoyed, as she had
    been with the clerk. As she sometimes spoke to him of those kind of things.
    He had always prided his self-control, and he had blessed it then. But all
    self-control had snapped when he had thought he lost her. Yet even back then—
    back in the Divine Realms, when he had kissed her for the first time—even
    then he knew it was a mistake, one of the greatest mistakes he could made. No
    matter if it was followed by three of the best years of his life. It had been
    a mistake. And he was now paying dearly for it.
    His Daine had woken up.
    She was silent now, finished with her fiery speech, exhausted. Perhaps
    feeling worse than before—more guilty, more strained, feeling more like a
    stranger in this place that was her home too. But maybe better—relieved,
    lighter, less frightened. She was looking at the floor, waiting for him to
    speak, wanting him to say something that would make the whole thing better.
    He said something that could only make it worse:
    "Who is it?" he asked.
    Daine, startled, looked up, her eyes wide.
    "What?" she whispered.
    "Can you tell me who he is? His name?"
    "Oh." She breathed.
    Her eyes dropped back to the ground, and she gently rocked back and forth,
    hugging her elbows and biting her lip.
    "You—you know him."
    Numair stared into space silently for a moment, thinking. Then suddenly, out
    of nowhere, the bright, grinning face of his young apprentice appeared before
    his eyes. His light gray eyes, tight black curls, and freckled cheeks. And he
    had a flash of memory—Daine coming into his workroom, giving the curly
    apprentice a quick glance, before walking over and wrapping her arms around
    Numair's neck and giving him a light kiss.
    "Kyren?" He asked softly drawing focus on her face. Daine gave out a
    shuddering breath. A few tears that had been crawling down her cheeks dropped
    onto her knees, causing little dark spots to spread. He felt as thought his
    insides were being torn at by some wild beast with claws.
    He nodded absently, more times that was necessary.
    "He's a good man." He said softly.
    Suddenly, it became to much for Numair. He had to get away from her. He
    didn't know what would happen if he didn't, but he was sure he wouldn't
    survive to find interest in the consequences. He quickly rose.
    Reaching out on arm, he abruptly stopped it and dropped it to his side. He
    wanted to brush to cheek, but no. That would be an intimate gesture, a
    gesture of affection. He wasn't allowed now to show her that king of intimate
    affection anymore. Giving out a sharp breath, her turned and tightly shut his
    eyes.
    "Good bye, Daine." He managed to say calmly and quietly before striding
    quickly to the door of his workroom and stepping inside.
    Daine remained for a couple minuets sitting as she was, being tormented by
    the feelings of pure guilt that bubbled in her blood. She knew the she
    couldn't know how she had just hurt him. But it was time. She could no longer
    hide it from him. And Kyren had wanted her to tell him, too. Kyren loved
    Numair. He was like him in so many ways. And he told her it was unbearable
    for him to face his teacher, and then go and kiss they teacher's lover. So it
    was over.
    Slowly, sluggishly, she rose and, shuffling her feet, went into the bedroom.
    The shades were pulled tightly closed and it was very dark. She lit a candle
    and quietly made her way to the dresser. Pulling out the top drawer, she
    dumped the contents on the large, four poster bed and began folding them
    absently, shoving them into her bag. She would come back later—in a week,
    maybe—to get the rest of her things. She, just then, needed to gather her
    vital belonging and get out.
    But something made her stop.
    A little black box, sitting on the dresser. It had been put here absently,
    when the owner was examining it, and was interrupted, and had no time to
    return it to it's rightful place. Frowning slightly, curiosity breaking the
    surface of her gloomy thoughts, Daine set down a shirt she was holding and
    reached for the box. The was made of stone, and was cool in her hands. With a
    soft click she opened it.
    Nearly dropped it.
    Tears sprung to her eyes, clogged her throat, and burned her lungs. She
    gasped for breath, breath wouldn't come. Her knees suddenly felt weak, her
    legs could not support her. She staggered, and sank to the floor, leaning
    against the dresser so that a handle was hurting her back, and wailed, crying
    softly.
    What was in the little black box that caused out Daine such great distress?
    The reader has probably already guessed. Yes, a little ring, of pure white
    gold, with a blind stone, the value of which could not be overcome, nestled
    at the top. And on the inside, in perfect, slightly slanted script, engraved
    were the words:
    _
    My Magelet
    _ …

****

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

PART TWO

~*~

Alanna the Lioness, the King's Champion, the baroness of Pirate's Swoop, a wife to the ex-king 

of thieves, a great hero, the retriever of the Dominion Jewel, an idle to many, and currently the 

sole Lady Knight in the whole kingdom, didn't give a damn about her title at the moment.

She ran through the maze of the palace, making apparently random turns, taking apparently 

random stairs up and down. Her run had been long and hurried one—she was already quite out of breath. Viewed for the sky, she would probably look like a little red-haired mouse, eagerly scurrying through a maze some scholar had build for her. But her thoughts were much more complex than those of a mouse, and her destination was certainly not random. 

Finally coming up onto the floor where the teachers resigned, she took a calming breath and 

slowed her run into something that was more like a rapid walk. Alanna found herself stuck in the 

middle between her two friends. She had never, despite all of Numair's hair-ripping ravings, 

expected this to come. The two's relationship seemed too perfect. They had known each other a 

long time, knew each other's faults, appreciated each other's strengths. They had even, in a way, 

reminded Alanna of herself and Gorge. She had thought they were going to marry, and those 

thoughts had come not without solid evidence either.

But her encounter, just a few hours ago, with a sobbing, disheveled Daine erased all thoughts of 

marriage ceremonies from her mind.

Daine had explained, through a stream of tears, everything. Which was why she was running like 

crazy to her long mage now. Alanna knew that Numair had enough reason not to do anything too 

rash and un-reversible, but Mithro's shield, he didn't have to blow up the castle to make her worry about 

him.

Numair Salmalin __

Veralidaine Sarasri

Alanna bit her lip hard and tugged on the ember-stone around her neck as she came to the door. Some kind of odd sadness was stirring inside her. It was as though their pair had been a beautiful, favorite vase that had shattered in some accident that shouldn't have happened. She clutched her hand into a fist and banged violently against the door. 

There was a pause, lasting some half minuet, before soft shuffling was heard, followed by a long 

whistle, and the door sung open. Alanna frowned, looking down at the pale-gray dragon that 

bumped against her leg, demanding to be picked up. 

"What are _you_ doing here?" The Champion mumbled, obliging to picking up Kitten. She 

wondered why she wasn't with Daine right now. The little dragon whistled again and curled her 

tail to touch her muzzle. 

Alanna sighed. "Yes, I know. I'm sad too." She said.

Of course she knew where he would be. Making her way through the dark apartment, stepping 

over a knocked-over chair, clothes turned inside out, and books flapping open (all of which had 

been the dragon's work), she crept to the door of his workroom. Here she didn't even bother to 

knock, knowing that he wouldn't open if she did, and might even spell the door shut with a stronger

spell, one which _she_ wouldn't be able to break. Alanna set Kitten down, cupped her hand, and a 

small ball of purple appeared. She let it grow for a couple of moment before exhaling sharply and 

shoving against the door.

It was _boiling_ in the room. The air was so heavy it seemed to press against her face, forcing tears 

to come to her eyes. Black fog-like substance that gathered at the ceiling didn't appear to help much—just

the opposite: Alanna suspected he had purposely put a warming spell on the room, although she couldn't

imagine why. The room contained no windows, and the only source of light was a small gas lamp, burning

on a table that was cluttered with parchments, piles of books, magical stones, little jars, threatening to be 

extinguished by the immense air blanket at any moment.

She didn't see him at first, but then she heard the soft bubbling of a cauldron, and her attention was drawn

to the shadows. Numair was standing before it, his hands hanging limply at his sides, staring at it as though in

a trance. 

"_Hello._" Alanna said, a bit too loudly. He jumped back and stared at her, eyes wide. Then shook his head 

violently—to clear it—and breathing audibly, walked over to the table.

"Alanna." He said softly. 

He ran his finger down one of the unrolled scrolls, nodded absently, and began shuffling the paper all

over in search for the next ingredient.

"How are you?" She asked.

Numair didn't appear to have heard. He frowned, and looked back at the scroll. Then went to one of the shelves

against the wall, and began pulling books down. All his movements were somehow slow and sluggish.

Alanna walked over to where the cauldron stood.

__

"How are you?" She asked again.

Numair turned to the cauldron, and dumped some sort of sparkly powder into it. Then, summoning up a longs

rod, began drawing symbols on the surface.

Numair answered, slowly and quietly, "I'm as well as can be expected." And went back to his scroll.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not especially, no." He paused, staring at the dark-yellow parchment. Then he asked, in the tone one

asks, 'Should I take apples to the picnic?', "Did you know about them?"

Alanna shook her head. "I didn't."

He nodded. 

Reaching over the boiling cauldron, Alanna put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently. He didn't

move, just kept staring into the water, and she could feel a slight shudder pass though him.

"I'm really sorry, Numair."

He slowly lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I knew this was bound to happen. I should have been more prepared." 

A book from the shelf floated over to him. He caught it, but didn't open it. There was a pause. "I just didn't

expect it to be…like this."

"Numair…"

Numair released the book back to the shelf, pushed his sleeves up, and made as though to stir the cauldron. 

"She's upset, though, isn't she?"

"I spoke to her today. She is."

He was quiet for another moment. "She shouldn't be. Tell her she shouldn't be. Kyren is a very…agreeable…person."

"You aren't mad at him?"

He shook his head. "No. I find myself hating him with every atom of my being, by I'm sure that's only temporary."

Suddenly, as though his strength had left him, Numair backed backwards into a chair, and bowed his head. Alanna

looked at him, and she couldn't believe how tired he looked. Not the fatigue of sleepless nights or physical draining, but

a kind of deep, spiritual exhaustion. 

"Go to her now, Alanna." He said softly. "I don't want her crying. With the holidays approaching, this is a time for merriment."

But somehow _merriment_ sounded bitter.

"He's with her right now. _You_ need me more than Daine does."

"I'll let you fuss over me and feel sorry for me _later_, Alanna." Once again, an ounce of bitterness seeped though his voice. "I

have things I must do."

Alanna faltered, looking down at him, now completely swallowed by the shadows, in this boiling room. She didn't want to

leave.

"Will you be ok?"

"I won't blow anything up, or turn Kyren into anything that may be considered an addition to their 

Majesty's botanical garden."

"Numair…"

"Don't worry, Alanna. I'll be alright by tomorrow. I'll be alright."

That was his way of saying she could _leave_, please, _right now_. She didn't want to leave him here alone, though. 

Not right now, not when she was now certain he was as far from alright as she was from easy going. But she knew

she had to, so she patted him shoulder again, and backed towards the door.

"Just…try to get some sleep, ok, Numair? It might help." She said at the exit.

"I'll be alright. Close the door behind you when you leave, please." 

"Right."

When Alanna left, shutting softly the door, Numair let his Black gift spill from his fingers and form at the door. It

wouldn't do if Onua or the King decided to show up. By tomorrow he'd be alright, he told Alanna. No, he had 

lied. By tomorrow he will _look_ alright, and maybe _sound_ alright, but he would not be alright. 

Shutting his eyes tight, he tried to suppress the wave of emotion that was pressing at his chest, threatening to 

suddenly jump out of his mouth. His ribs hurt. Dully. And so did his head. When he had realized that he loved her, he

had to bury everything below mounds and mounds of common sense. It had been like a ball of magma deep below 

the earth, biting it's time before exploding in a great volcano. And the first night he loved her, he had let all that feeling, 

all that emotion out, freed. It felt like dropping a huge weight that he'd carried on his shoulders forever. Not his shoulders—

inside his chest. And now…now he had to force it all back. Stuff it in, force it under. Only this time, it felt so so so

much heavier. And this time there wasn't nearly enough room. Why did he have to go and kiss her that time by the cliff?

And why did he have to go and order that pointless ring!? 

But there would other times to dwell on how stupid and pointless his actions were. He needed to get himself together. And 

the potion, though it was really not much more than a simple distraction from all this crumbling mess, needed to be finished.

It he could just remember what it was that he was brewing… The room felt so terribly cold, like a tomb. This promised to be

A cold winter. Yes, a cold, cold winter. He must have forgotten to spell it for warmth. Got distracted…

Ah, well. There was plenty of time until tomorrow, plenty. He'd finish all that was needed to be done by then. And then, 

probably, all would be well. 

As he rose and walked, slowly, back to the table, and moved the gas lamp closer, so he'd be able to read the scroll, as his

eyes, seemingly black in the yellow lights, crawled down the page, as his fingers absently rubbed against the palm of his hand,

snow began to fall outside.

Softly and gently fell the little snowflakes, circling slowly, melting the moment they neared the burning ground. Softly and gently 

the dogs beat their tails against the floor, slowly watching as servants rush down and up the halls. Softly and gently sleep began to 

come over a young woman, cheeks of which were streaked still with wet lines. Slowly her head began to drop, resting against the

shoulder of the man who held her tightly then. 

And when the dogs, later, retrieved their dreams, and when they young man, later yet, loosened his grip on the girl, softly and gently 

the snow stopped falling, and left but stains on moisture on the roads, and a couple of snowflakes on leaves of distant trees.

Thus ended the first snowfall of winter. When came the next day came, later. And when the second time the snow fell more time has

passed yet. Had those few hours of circling snowflakes changed anything really, in lived of humans and dogs? Who can say and not lie?

* * *

****

Author's Note: Yes, well, that was the second chapter. Don't really know what to say. I wish it was snowing right now. I'm in the

mood for snow. But who could one _dare_ hope for snow in November in Massachusetts?! Eh, well. If you have any comments, questions,

hair-ripping ravings, or anything of that merry sort, don't be sky and email me ( abluei@hotmail.com ). And if you live somewhere where it's

snowing right now, you can tell me about that, too. Anyway, thanks for reading. I luv ya all!

****

Disclaimer: (See above. Waaaaaay above.)


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